


Shake it Out

by Sephirajo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2017-12-24 09:09:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sephirajo/pseuds/Sephirajo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The forces have been gathered, and now Alistair, Orla Amell are on their way to the capital of Denerim for the Landsmeet.  Before leaving, Arl Eamon confronts Orla about the nature of her relationship with Alistair, starting a break between the two that they may not be able to weather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where are We Going from Here

“I trust the room is to your liking?” the sound of the Arl’s voice cut through her reading, causing her to almost drop the book she had borrowed from Wynne. Orla hadn’t paid any attention to the door opening because she had assumed it was Alistair. They were leaving in the morning, after all, having called the Landsmeet. So she was dumbfounded to see who it actually was. The only thought she could summon was it was a good thing she was dressed.

If you could call a muslin shift ‘dressed.’ Maker, the thing was practically see-through! She held the book to her chest and tried to see if anyone was behind him. As if reading her mind he said, “Alistair and Teagan are catching up. I thought I would take the moment to speak to the woman who saved my life and my family.”

“I’m,” _shocked_ , “Honored that you would take the time to come and speak with me, my lord,” Orla started, carefully, “I’m just, well, not dressed to receive a visitor right now,” she said.

“Oh, of course,” The Arl said, and turned around, facing the door, but didn’t move to leave, “I’ll wait.”

_Of course you would,_ Orla thought, stumbling out of bed and tripping on her way to the Orlesian dressing screen. She started putting on the pale yellow linen dress she had worn most of their journey. After all, when the country was out to get Grey Wardens you couldn’t wear the armor. It didn’t even occur to her that it was ratted and dirty and really not fitting to be worn in front of anyone. Not to mention that with the shift sticking out at odd ends it just looked ludicrous.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Arl Eamon said simply.

“I’m sorry, my lord?” Orla asked, fighting with the laces on the corset.

“Are you content with the room?” he asked kindly.

“Oh! Yes, it’s very,” _roomy_ , “comfortable,” it was just missing who it needed for her to be able to sleep. Finally able to finish the last of the leather laces she stepped out from behind the screen with as much grace as she could manage. She dressed herself in mostly dim light and was sure Eamon wouldn’t notice how disheveled she was.

“You’ll have to forgive me, Arl, I wasn’t expecting you,” Orla said with a slight curtsy as he turned back around.

“That’s alright,” the Arl said, his smooth voice had a hint of amusement to it, “I was hoping to get a chance to speak to you about the Landsmeet before we left,” he motioned to the chair that stood alone in front of the desk. Orla sat down, trying to smooth out the skirts that a year on the run had destroyed.

“I couldn’t help but to notice your reaction at the suggestion we put Alistair forward for king,” Arl Eamon said, standing with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Alistair doesn’t want to be king,” Orla pointed out, aware that her tone was a lot harsher than she should have taken with someone of his station. She had to remind herself that she was a Warden now, and in theory that should put her on equal footing with the Arl.

In theory.

“Besides,” Orla added quickly, “He’s a Warden.” _And he’s staying with me._

“He is a Warden,” the Arl agreed, with a nod, “But he’s also the only living child of Maric’s. You’re Ferelden and last I checked the Circle did have their mages study history. You should be aware of the importance of Calenhad’s bloodline.”

“Is it so important that you’d place proof that Maric betrayed the late Queen’s trust on the throne?” Orla returned.

“Yes,” he said simply. His answer surprised her, “Alistair isn’t to blame for his father’s mistakes-”

“Then he shouldn’t suffer for them!” Orla interjected, but the Arl silenced her with a glare and then continued.

“Sometimes we put aside our feelings and do what is best for Ferelden. The public support for Anora in the capital is simply to keep the peace while Loghain commits treason in her stead. Do you think she’ll retain her popular support once her father’s actions come fully to light?” the Arl’s voice cut like a knife.

“I… don’t know,” Orla admitted, “I wasn’t taught about how things work in Court,” she pointed out.

“Of course you weren’t. Mages are not allowed places in Court, after all. Tevinter proves why your kind can never be trusted with power,” he said with a tone so casual it stung, “The few letters I’ve already gotten back have shown that once everything comes to light Anora’s support will crumble. Not having a suitable replacement will sow chaos that could be easily avoided.”

“And how will making Alistair king,” _when he doesn’t want to be,_ “avoid that chaos. You’re the only one who knows who his father was,” she snapped then added, “Though I’m sure they’ll listen to you, it’s just… there’s no actual proof,” Orla said, hoping amending the statement would mean she didn’t offend him. And there wasn’t, as far as she was aware. Just the Arl, his brother and a money grubbing washing woman no one would listen to anyway.

“You never saw Maric. Alistair looks exactly like him,” Eamon stated. His tone made it clear this was not an argument he was going to have. It was clear what he meant: Alistair himself was the proof of his parentage. “The best solution is to put him forward for king. I think we can both agree that a united Ferelden stands a better chance against the Blight than a bunch of bickering Bannorns. In a perfect world, he would be free to make this choice. The world isn’t perfect though, which also brings us back to you,” Eamon said, leveling his gaze on her.

“What about me?” Orla asked, a knot forming in the pit of her stomach.

“While, on occasion, the crown has had a magical adviser having a mage so _close_ to the Crown…” Eamon let the statement hang in the air. The meaning was clear.

“No,” Orla said, though it lacked conviction as her voice trembled.

“Do you honestly think what you have will last? That it outweighs the needs of the kingdom?” Eamon started, “Even if he stays a Warden, there isn’t a Divine Chantry in Thedas that would marry you.”

“That isn’t true,” Orla snapped, “Mages have been married.”

“One in a thousand, maybe. But it would have to be approved, and in this case it wouldn’t be,” Eamon said, the implied threat hanging in the air like a wisp that lead someone off to the end of their life. It hit just as hard.

“Then we won’t get married,” Orla said, desperation in her voice.

“And be like your late mother?” Eamon’s question left Orla agape, “I was given your file from the Circle,” Eamon explained, “And it’s another reason you couldn’t remain as you are. Not only a mage, but the daughter of a dock whore from Gwaren. If you think our enemies wouldn’t find some way to use that to their advantage you’re living in a fool’s dream I’m sorry to say.”

“Kirkwall,” Orla said, her nails digging into the expensive fabric on the chair, “Mother was from _Kirkwall._ ” What few good memories she had of her mother were stories from a time she had never seen and that even her sister, Grace, had only partly remembered. Stories of parties and fancy dresses. Of abundant food and warm beds. She couldn’t argue the fact her mother was a whore. That was a painful truth.

“I would stay with telling people she’s from Gwaren. There have been enough foreign influences here to last us for quite some time,” Eamon said as he stood straight. Orla on the other hand felt like sinking into the floor. “We’ll be able to talk more on the road,” Eamon said softly, in stark contrast to how he had just been speaking. “You should get some sleep, Warden.”

Orla just sat there, staring down at her knees, her red hair covering her face. She felt like she had just been hit in the stomach. _No,_ she decided a moment later, _this feels much worse._

She almost didn’t notice when Alistair walked in the room. He walked in backwards, a bottle in one hand, “Was that Eamon?” he muttered to himself and then turned to her. She could see the grin on his face through the lines of red hair and tears, “Look what Teagan let me take. I brought a couple of glasses too, I thought we cou- Orla? What’s wrong?”

Orla pushed her hair out of her face, the red strands falling to either side of her face in a jumble, “If I say nothing,” she managed after a moment, “would you believe me?” _I wouldn’t believe me_ , she thought. Not with the way her voice was hitching.

“I’m going to say no, no I wouldn’t,” Alistair returned, but despite the answer being playful his voice was not. He sat the glasses and the wine bottle down on the desk and knelt down in front of her. At first his expression was serious and then he managed to see how well she had dressed herself, “You know, you don’t have to be upset about not being able to dress yourself in the dark. Of course there I go, trying to _lighten_ mood,” the way he dropped the pun was so obvious that Orla couldn’t help but to laugh shortly.

“That was terrible,” she laughed, wiping her eyes. _I don’t want to give this up._

“Well I have it on good authority that I’m a very _bad_ man. After all, here I am planning drinks and word games with a shockingly fiery mage,” it was obvious he was trying to cheer her up.

“Keep that up and I’ll light you on fire _while_ shocking you,” Orla returned, smiling.

He rested his head on her knees, looking up at her with an impish grin, “Promise?”

“I suppose I can’t say no to you,” Orla said, mockingly rolling her eyes.

“Ah, my evil plan is already working!” Alistair cackled.

Orla inclined her head back towards the desk, “Teagan let you raid the wine cellar?”

“I know, I’m shocked too. Not literally of course,” he added quickly, “Not yet anyway. You should have seen Wynne down there. She looked like she had walked right to the Maker’s side. If the Maker were made of wine,” he stood up and walked back to the bottle, picking it up and taking a cork out of his pocket.

“Maybe he is. Maybe he sneezes wine,” Orla joked back.

“Then what would he vomit?” Alistair said after a moment of faked deep thought.

“Bread pudding?” Orla offered as the wine bottle made a loud pop when he removed the cork.

“Then I do hope I’m found worthy when I die, because who could say no to that?” Alistair chuckled, pouring the wine.

“No one who trusts that the maker is their bacon,” Orla said, taking the cup he offered.

“The veal holds no uncertainty for us,” he laughed.

“At least the veal and the forests aren’t burning,” she continued, different verse, but it worked!

“Of course not, we are the Champions of the Juice,” Alistair said, drinking from his glass.

“Juice? This is wine,” she teased, before taking a sip. She was used to wine being sour, all that she had in the Circle had been. And the last year had been more watered down ale than wine. This was sweet, though, with only the faintest taste of liquor left behind.

“Aww, you broke the game,” Alistair crooned, sitting on the bed. He motioned for her to join him, and she did, walking over with the glass and grabbing the bottle as well, “I guess we’ll have to talk now,” he said with a silly pout turning his lips.

Orla sat near the head of the bed, placing the bottle on the end table. Between her first few years in the hovel in Gwaren and then in the circle, a room like this was a luxury she couldn’t have dreamt up. And it was one of the smaller ones in the Arl’s estate.

“What about?” she asked, taking another sip of the wine as she moved in close to Alistair; his presence alone could make her forget everything outside the door.

This time, however, one of the problems sat next to her. One of the problems was her. No matter how much she wished it wasn’t so. _Put aside your feelings and do what is best for Ferelden._

Orla entwined the fingers of her free hand with his, but stared ahead at the shadows flickering on the wall instead of at him. “What did Eamon want?” Alistair asked, his hand squeezing hers, “And you can’t say to thank you for saving his wife and son. He’s already done that. I was there,” he said with a nod.

“You were,” Orla agreed, playing with her wine glass with her free hand. She sighed and put her head on his shoulder, “He was just talking politics.”

“He was… what?” Alistair’s anger tightened his voice, “I’m not going to do it, and trying to get to you… No. I’m not going to, so don’t even think about it,” Alistair said firmly.

“What if… what if it’s the right thing to do? The only thing to do?” Orla returned, still staring at the wall. Alistair pulled away then, sliding off the bed and faced her. She still couldn’t look at him.

“How could you even think that?” Alistair snapped, “Look at me, Orla, please,” he pleaded, putting the wine down and cupping her face with his hands, “Why would you even believe it for a second?”

“Because of what you are,” Orla managed around the lump in her throat.

“I didn’t _ask_ to be Maric’s bastard, you know,” Alistair said simply. With anyone else, Orla was sure it would’ve come off defensive. Here, in this moment, he sounded sad.

“I didn’t _ask_ to be born a mage,” Orla returned. Born a mage to a whore, in a shack. With serious mien, Alistair took her wine glass from her and set it aside with his. In a single motion he pulled her up and into his arms, holding her small frame tightly against his.

“You’re the mage, the _woman_ , I love,” Alistair said, his voice thick and his breath ruffling her hair, “And we’re not going to think about this. I’ll tell you what’s going to happen: we’re going to tell Eamon where he can shove politics. I’m going to stay a Warden and you and I will make it through the time we have together. I’m going to fall asleep by your side every night. I’ll snore in your ear while we sleep. And spend the rest of my life waking up to your red hair and the silly noise you make when you stretch. And we’ll be happy, Orla.”

“Happy fighting darkspawn?” she asked, burying her head in his chest.

“Happy fighting darkspawn,” Alistair said, kissing her hair.

“No one will marry us,” Orla pointed out. It had never meant much until it was a possibility. Now it seemed a tragic loss.

Alistair gently tilted her face up to his, “They don’t have to. As far as I care we already are,” he muttered before lowering his lips to hers. It became more desperate as it continued. Orla knew he was trying to reassure her without words. She tried to do the same, silently. Even as he lowered her to the feather mattress and they lost themselves in each other, she couldn’t help but to wonder. To doubt. Orla’s heart trembled even as Alistair tried to make it fly.

* * *

The next morning they were on the road. To avoid the horde with everyone in the train, many of whom couldn’t fight, they would be going around a long way and the trip would take them the better part of a month. Orla wasn’t looking forward to the next twenty days. Whatever speed they had gained from the horses the Arl had provided was lost due to the large number of his household on foot.

Not everyone was with them, though. Bann Teagan, the Arlessa and Connor were staying behind along with a handful of men to hold the castle. While grateful to be free of Isolde’s screeching and the obligation to watch Connor in recompense for her friend’s mistake, she did wish Teagan was with them. Even without last night’s events the Arl could be stoic and and cold in contrast to his brother Teagan who was a warm and friendly face.

With the weather hitting its winter stride, she was glad to be back in the Grey Warden robes. One of Eamon’s servants even carried the Gray Warden standard next to Redcliffe’s banner. The robes at least weren’t tattered and worn like the dress she had worn the past year. It fit, even the shoes. Especially the shoes, and she thanked the Maker for that.

During the first half of the day’s ride, Orla found herself staring at Alistair. They had barely slept last night, and though it had been the pleasant kind of wakefulness she was feeling it now. Her thoughts also kept wandering to what the Arl had said and her blue gaze moved to him as well.

“Come now, Orla,” Morrigan’s voice almost made her jump, “Surely Alistair is enough to keep you busy and you needn’t be visually disrobing the Arl as well.” Morrigan wasn’t on horseback and had simply fallen in step beside her. Despite Alistair’s bets with the Redcliffe foot soldiers the horses didn’t spook when the self-proclaimed witch came close. Instead they seemed to enjoy having her around.

“I am not ‘visually undressing’ the Arl,” Orla snapped. Normally barbs between her and Morrigan were those of two friends teasing each other. Today, Orla was having none of it.

“Then mayhap your overly intent staring was hoping he would burst into flames,” Morrigan said, “Though, dislike it as you may, he did have a point.”

“You were watching,” Orla sighed. It wasn’t a question. She knew Morrigan well enough by now. “A fly on the wall this time?” Orla said, “or a spider?”

“To be set upon by the castle staff? No. A bowl of water works just as well and I do not have to worry about some fool trying to swat me away,” Morrigan said sagely.

“I never could get the hang of scrying,” Orla mused.

“And yet you seem quite able to stare at objects overlong without blinking,” Morrigan joked, “So perhaps you chose to fail.”

“Perhaps I did,” Orla said, “After all, if you showed talent for it the Templars would make you spy on your fellows and if you didn’t… I knew a girl, she spent a couple nights with another mage. He had a thing for escaping and took off again. They brought her in and told her to see where he had gone. It would be quicker than using his phylactery, they said. She lied to them and sent them off in the other direction. About two weeks later they caught him anyway, but her they beat within an inch of her life. She was never quite the same afterward.”

“Well then, you were smarter than she for not letting on you had any such talent,” Morrigan said firmly.

“Or not taking up with anyone,” Orla added with a short laugh, “my first love will always be books.”

“Then the truth the Arl spoke should not bother you so,” Morrigan stated, “And ‘tis the truth. Finding it unpleasant doesn’t make it any less so.”

“Look, I know you don’t like him and me being with him makes you physically ill but he’s not going to be king,” Orla snapped.

“I may not like him, but you and I are friends,” Morrigan pointed out, “I dare say something close to sisters. And ‘tis true, I do think you have taken up with quite the idiot but a decently handsome one at least. However, if you honestly think these bickering lords will put aside their own interests without at least a figurehead in front of them, Orla, you are quite wrong. And ‘tis worse because you _know_ you are wrong and just lying to yourself.”

“And what would you have me do, Morrigan?” Orla asked, exasperated.

“Break it off with the lumbering fool now. ‘Twill save you both pain in the long run. Though I do find watching his flailing amusing ‘tis not so with you,” Morrigan said the last quietly.

“Maybe the lords will support Anora. Maybe she’s free of all her father’s treason,” Orla said, holding tightly on the reigns of the horse.

“Maybe she is free of it, but have you ever known a man to let a woman stay in power that he could take?” Morrigan pointed out.

Orla didn’t say anything for a long moment and then answered flatly, “No.”

* * *

It had been years since Eamon had to take to the road. He had never been all that fond of traveling, if only because it had always been a necessity and not something they had desired to do. When the war was over he told himself he was going to stay settled, but life had ways of making sure you never got quite what you wanted.

Still, he sat on the horse with a practiced ease and ignored the first few snowflakes that hit his face. As Eamon rode next to Alistair he noticed the younger man wore an expression that was both angry and tired. He sighed to himself. These things were never easy, but they had to be done.

“Alistair,” Eamon said, hoping to coax him into speaking. The look he got back was one of burning anger. It reminded him of Maric when he was angry or upset about something, the resemblance took him aback.

“How _could_ you,” Alistair growled, “She was crying when I got there.”

“Alistair, you are both adults. The truth is not a soft thing,” Eamon pointed out. Maker’s Breath, it wasn’t like he had gone there with the intent to make the mage girl cry. He hardly relished his duty in this case. Anora couldn’t stay on the throne, for more than one reason. And to place Alistair on the throne for him to have a mage for a mistress spelled disaster.

“Well you know, this ‘truth’ doesn’t matter because I’m not going to be King,” Alistair said, petulant, “So I don’t want to hear it. And Orla doesn’t want to hear it either.”

“It’s nice to know that you two have so steeled yourself against reality,” Eamon said acridly, “It won’t do either of you any favors come the Landsmeet.”

“Reality?” Alistair snapped, “I’m not the one out of touch with it here. I’m not a king, Eamon. I don’t want to be, not only would I not be any damn good at it I am not leaving her.”

Eamon sighed audibly, “You _are_ your father’s son.”

“No, I’m not. He didn’t care what happened to me. And I don’t give a damn about the chair he sat on,” Alistair said. Eamon was left trying to decide how best to get the point across. In a perfect world this wouldn’t be necessary, but it would never be so. Though, even if it was, why a _mage_ of all things?

“Trust me, you are very much your father’s son. Maric also had a habit of picking up strays,” which was a nice way to refer to the elves and serving girls that he was aware of. And he suspected there were more that he didn’t know of. It hadn’t been something Eamon had enjoyed watching his sister go through, but it got them on the throne.

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” Alistair replied, staring at Eamon with daggers for eyes.

This was not going to be easy for the boy to hear, but it had to be said. Even if he kept insisting he wouldn’t be king, _this mage_ was beneath him and it was time someone told him so, “He was fond of those… beneath him. But even Maric would have stopped at a mage daughter of a dock who-”

Eamon didn’t get to finish his sentence as Alistair had already spurred his horse and rode ahead, kicking up dirt from the road. _Flames, why do these children have to be so bloody difficult._

* * *

Alistair wanted to scream as he rode away from Eamon, but he wouldn’t give the Arl the pleasure. Once he got far enough ahead he looked around until he spotted Orla’s bright red hair. It was a few shades darker and longer than Leliana’s and made her easy to find. Taking a breath to try to let out some of the stress he guided his horse towards hers in an easy trot, putting a smile on his face.

A smile that melted into a scowl when he saw that Witch standing beside her, “Well look who slithered out from her rock!”

“Spent all morning thinking of that one, did you?” Morrigan returned. Much to Alistair’s chagrin she didn’t move from Orla’s side, keeping herself firmly between them both.

“Yes, I spent all day planning it _just_ for you,” Alistair snapped, “So, now that that’s done you can go back sucking souls and souring milk.”

“Hm, no, I think I shall remain here and continue having a conversation I know you cannot follow. For it makes me giddy to see you reminded of your own stupidity,” Morrigan said brightly.

Alistair opened his mouth to snap back at the bitch when Orla spoke up, “Morrigan, given that the Arl’s soldiers seem to be simply a few knights mixed in with the townsfolk. Do you trust them to know the road ahead?”

“No, ‘tis obvious they’re scared of their own shadows,” Morrigan snorted.

“You’re right,” Orla said and Alistair started to protest but she continued, “I really don’t trust them to know the road ahead. I can’t fly in front of them and still have them listen to me, so could you scout ahead and then let me know?”

_My love, the genius._ Morrigan gave Orla a look, nodded once and sprung ahead, becoming a wolf mid-stride. It always creeped him out to see Morrigan do that. And yet, he realized, it never bothered him to see Orla do it. Maybe it was because Morrigan was more an animal who sometimes took human form. Orla, on the other hand, was a human who could fly away. She had certainly flown away with his heart long ago.

Alistair moved his horse closer to Orla’s and put his smile back on his face, “You’re brilliant, you know,” he said, his tone light.

Orla smiled back, though today it seemed sad. _Damn you, Eamon,_ “Was that _really_ the best line you could come up with?” she joked.

“Well, yes. I did spend my entire morning thinking of witty ways to insult Morrigan, you see, so I’m afraid that’s it,” he said with mock gravity.

“Ah, I see,” Orla nodded, “Though I would wish you two wouldn’t actively try to skewer each other right in front of me.”

“But off to the side is okay, right?” Alistair asked hopefully. Orla rolled her eyes and he chuckled, “Fine,” he said, faking annoyance, “but only because it’s you that asked.”

“Thank you, Alistair,” Orla said, her gaze becoming distant. Without thinking, he brought his horse as close to hers as he could without startling the two animals.

“Quick, is Eamon looking?” he asked.

Orla turned her head in that direction to check, “Yes…? Why-”

He cut her off with a kiss. It wasn’t an easy thing to keep going from horse to horse, so he had to break it off quicker than he liked, but the scent of her hair still lingered and left him grinning like a fool. “That’s why.”

Orla’s laughter brought him two things, a smile and a sense of peace. Alistair sat back and took her in: she was beautiful, of course, but also wonderfully smart, compassionate, strong with a quick tongue and a great sense of humor. He didn’t like seeing her upset, he never would and if he could help it, she never would be.

“You’re lucky you didn’t fall off your horse,” Orla noted, breaking him out of his train of thought.

“It wasn’t my best thought out plan,” Alistair agreed.

“You think your plans through?” she returned, laughing.

“You’ve caught me,” Alistair said brightly, “No planning here.”

“Obviously,” Orla said, laughing and then turned looked over at him, her eyes clear, “What were you talking to the Arl about?” she asked, her voice wavering a bit.

“Oh, the usual,” Alistair started, “How I’d be a terrible king, what an ass he’s being about it and how he had no right to upset you or call you things.”

“What kind of things?” Orla prompted.

“ _Bad_ things,” Alistair said, trying to play on the melodrama to get the subject to drop.

“Ah,” she said, letting out a breath, “He’s not wrong; my mother _was_ a whore,” Orla said simply, “In Gwaren. Of course, I last saw her when I was six.”

“I, uh… wow, okay. When all this is over, we should visit her,” he offered. Maybe they could help Orla’s mother in a way they hadn’t been able to get through to his ‘sister.’

“I would like to,” Orla started, “but she died a long time ago. I suppose losing all her children to The Circle was too much for her.”

“ _All_ her children?” Alistair was shocked, but he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Magic often ran in families no matter how much people tried to keep it buried.

“All four of us, well four that I know of. Maker, what if she had _more_?” Orla breathed the last, like the idea had never occurred to her before.

“You have siblings?” Orla rarely talked about her past and Alistair was eager to hear more.

“Yes. Two brothers and a sister. I only knew Grace and Brandon. Maker, I don’t remember the name of my oldest brother. I never knew him; he was taken away before I was born,” Orla said, “Only Grace talked about him, mother wouldn’t. Grace barely remembered anything either.”

“What was your mother like?” Alistair asked. He couldn’t help but to feel a bit jealous. He had been denied the chance to ever know his mother.

“Sad,” Orla said, “With hair too gray for her age. She only really smiled when talking about her past. But those stories might as well have been fairy tales.”

“What kind of fairy tales?” Alistair asked, encouraging her to continue.

“The kind with fancy dresses, dancing, fine food and wine and nobles all too ready to forget about you if you had the wrong type of child. She missed it and talked about it all the time,” Orla said.

“Well, we can do that. Except for the nobles part. How would Oghren put it? ‘Sod ‘em’?” Alistair attempted to mimic the dwarf’s accent on the last two words. “We’ll have earned the party, I think.”

As if summoned, the dwarf ran by. He was quickly followed by two of the Arl’s soldiers. And Oghren was distinctly without pants. “THE SODDING DOGS TOOK THEM!” Oghren shouted, the words slurring. Orla and Alistair looked at each other for a moment, agape and then burst out laughing.

“This is why we brought the dwarf, right?” Alistair said, laughing so hard he could barely breathe, “Because what is a blight without a pantsless dwarf?”

“A lot nicer to look at,” Orla said, almost bent over in her saddle from laughing, “Oghren’s behind was high on the list of ‘things I never wanted to see.’”

“Yes, we didn’t really need the answers to any of the age old questions about dwarves,” Alistair snickered.

A guard trotted up next to their horses then, “Excuse me, Warden, the Guard want to speak to you about our defenses for camp tonight.” Alistair was so upset at the interruption that he nearly told the guard where he could shove it.

“Of course,” Orla answered first. With a blue-eyed look at Alistair she rode off. _What would it be like to have her ride off and never come back?_

_No,_ it was too painful to think about. Alistair felt like they were trapped in a current, being taken in different directions.

* * *

After spending a day in the saddle Orla’s rear end felt like it was on fire, though she had mastered hiding signs of pain long ago. She kept her face stoic as she directed the horse to follow the guard through the camp to the main tent.

When they arrived, she slid off her horse thankful for the relief. _Dear Maker, I could use a hot bath._ Though she wasn’t as good of a healer as Wynne, Orla could at least take care of the bruises on her backside. She quietly channeled the spell while walking towards the tent being set up. The relief was instant, but her expression didn’t change. She was going to be dealing with the Arl, after all. With a deep breath she pushed aside the heavy canvas flap.

“You asked for me?” Orla asked, keeping her voice neutral as she stepped inside. Standing around the table were the Arl, his guard Captain, one of the knights whose name she could not recall and _Zevran_. Their faces flickered in the dancing candlelight as she came to the table.

“Ah, Warden,” Arl Eamon’s voice was distant as he kept his gaze down on the maps of the local roads, “We were just discussing our defense for the evening.”

“And the possibility of a murder of crows,” Zevran said, taking way too much glee in either the possibility or in the pun. It did explain why an elf was at the table, for while Orla had every faith in Zevran and what he could accomplish the Arl wasn’t so liberal. In fact, both the Guard Captain and the Knight seemed rather disturbed. That could have been because Zevran was rather open about being an assassin and the Arl had just recovered from an attempt on his life. However, Orla doubted the fact that Zevran was an elf helped matters any.

“We decimated the cell you came with,” Orla pointed out, “Would they have been able to hire more?”

“That sums up what we were discussing,” Arl Eamon said, his hands on the table.

_Oh this is going to be fun_ , Orla put her hands on the table. _Let’s get this over with,_ the next two hours were spent discussing everything from Crows to bandits to darkspawn and back again.

It annoyed her how the three human men at the table always seemed to wait for her input on something rather than taking Zevran’s. Even when it was obvious the elf would know more about it. It was also obvious the Knight and the Guard Captain weren’t quite sure she knew much about defending a camp, at least they were always second guessing here. It became apparent quickly that the reasons why they were questioning her were that she was a woman and a mage. Orla almost threw her hands up and walked out right then, after all her last year had been spent planning defenses and fights!

When it was over, Orla left the tent ready to strangle everyone in there except Zevran. The Antivan Elf fell in step behind her, “Well, that was bracing, was it not, _Bella?_ ”

“That’s one way to put it,” Orla sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Do you know where Leliana is? I have something I want you two to do.”

“Ah, clandestine work! How exciting!” Zevran had an unholy bounce in his step, “I shall find Leliana and we must meet somewhere dark and shadowy to make it all official, yes?”

“As long as what I need done is finished, I don’t care how official we make this,” Orla snapped and then paused, “I’m sorry, Zevran,” she sighed, “I didn’t mean…”

“It is okay, _Bella_. I will get our Orlesian friend and we will talk,” Zevran said simply. “It should not take too long to find her. We only have to follow the music.”

“Just no more Dalish songs, I hope,” Orla muttered, “Her voice is amazing but that was kind of awkward.”

Zevran chuckled, “If you asked I’m sure she’d restrain herself to really tragic Orlesian ballads. The gory ones.”

“At least those I can understand,” Orla said as they walked. There was indeed music in the distance, a lute and some singing carried on the cold night wind, “And there she is. I’ll meet you over by the trees. All dark and shadowy, to make it official,” Orla said, managing a small smile.

Zevran chuckled, “We will be there, _Bella_.”

Orla walked the brisk distance to the tree line on her own, looking up at the stars that peeked through the clouds, the sounds of camp drifting over. With all the sounds of life and with all the glimpses of a sky, she could almost forget that a blight was going on.

“So,” Leliana’s voice broke through the silence, “Zevran seems to be under the impression that we will be killing someone.”

“While there is more than one person here I would gladly stick a knife in, my dear Leliana, I didn’t say we were killing someone. Only that there was the _possibility_ of murder,” Zevran said, cheerful.

_Only you would be giddy at the possibility of murder, Zevran,_ Orla thought. Still, if it wasn’t completely wrong to do so there were a few people she wouldn’t mind seeing a puddle of their own blood. Such musings were unbecoming, however. And a mage always needed to be in control.

“No, no murder tonight. I’m sorry Zevran,” Orla said, patting the elf on the shoulder as he mock pouted.

He perked up almost instantly though, “Perhaps when we break our fast then!”

“What did you need to ask, Orla?” Leliana said, her musical voice and the accent making the words dance.

“I need you two to… steal something for me,” Orla said. There was no going back now. Her anxiety must have been written on her face, because Leliana placed a comforting hand on her and kept it there.

“And this is nothing you can ask for?” Leliana asked.

“Where’s the fun in that? Stealing is much more enjoyable!” Zevran quipped.

Orla shook her head, in reply to both of them. “I… no, it’s not something I could ask for. The Arl has something I want to see, it can be put back afterward but I have to see it.”

“What is it?” Leliana asked, gently.

“My file from The Circle,” Orla said simply.

A moment of silence followed as Bard and Assassin exchanged a glance, “Are you sure this is something you need?” Leliana asked.

“Please. I have to know,” Orla said, her voice catching.

“What do you have to know, _Bella?_ ” Zevran asked, his tone more subdued than Orla had heard it previously.

“What happened to my family, to my brothers… my sister. My mother… I just…” Orla trailed off, looking up at the sky again. She _needed_ to know.

“We understand, Orla,” Leliana said as Zevran nodded, “This will take a bit of planning though, so it will not be tonight.”

“I’ve waited this long,” Orla said, “I can wait a day or so more.”

“Oh yes,” Zevran said, “I’m sure there’s plenty more to keep us occupied. Like more meetings!”

“Ugh,” Orla spat.

“That bad?” Leliana asked.

“It is best to leave it at that,” Zevran said, his normal cheerfulness missing. It wasn’t often that happened, and yet it was nice to know he agreed with her about the ‘defense’ meeting in the tent.

“I should go,” _find Alistair_ , “flying for a bit. Tell the others I’ll be back shortly?” Orla asked but she didn’t wait for an answer. It was with a deep breath she started to shift. The act itself was freeing, and they had seen her do it before so she had no fear of them seeing it now.

First, her eyes changed, the vision becoming so much sharper even in the dark. Next, her skin started spouting red and brown feathers as arms gave way to wings. When Morrigan had first demonstrated this, Orla was convinced that it would be painful, but there was no pain involved. As she shrank to a hawk’s size, her Warden issued robes fell abandoned to the ground around her. She would have smiled if she had lips, but instead took flight, the rest of her clothing falling to the ground.

The wind ruffled Orla’s feathers as she flew towards the stars. _There’s nothing in the world like flying. Nothing._

* * *

Despite Eamon trying to set them up in separate tents, Alistair had put his foot down and the canvas tent he shared with Orla was set up. It wasn’t fancy like the Arl’s tent, but it had been home for the last year or so when they hadn’t had the money for inns or taverns. In fact, the more they traveled the harder it was to find one.

Getting a room for three people and a dog was easy enough. However, five humans, a dog, an elf, three dwarves (one of whom only said ‘Enchantment!’), a Qunari and a giant rock monster was another thing altogether. So the more they traveled, the more they relied on the tents. Wynne, Orla, Leliana and surprisingly enough Zevran were all very good at keeping the canvas in repair.

_This is more like home than the room the Arl gave us,_ Alistair thought as he started to take off his armor. All the more proof that he was a traveler and a warrior, not a Prince. Of course it was missing the person that made it home. It was nearly impossible to get the plate off on his own and he was almost sorry he had turned down Eamon’s offer of a servant to help, but he managed to get it started. Even if his fingers weren’t as deft as Orla’s.

When the flap for the tent was pulled up he brightened, only to have it be Leliana, carrying Orla’s robes. That made him raise his eyebrow.

Leliana apparently picked up on what he was thinking, “No, Alistair, she isn’t running around naked. The meeting apparently did not go all that well, she went flying. She’ll be back soon,” the bard promised, smiling.

“Oh, uh, yes,” and now he couldn’t help _but_ to picture Orla running around the forest in the nude like some forest spirit. He was sure he was blushing. “Thank you. For bringing her clothes back,” Alistair said quickly, taking the blue and silver robes.

“It was nothing,” Leliana said and then looked him over, “Are you sure you don’t need some help with that?” she asked.

“What?” Alistair said, and then realized he was still half in his armor with some of the pieces hanging loose, “Oh this? No, I’ve got it totally under control. Nothing to see here!”

“Uh…huh,” Leliana said, “Because I can get one of the servants for you, if you like.”

“Nope!” Alistair said hurriedly, “Completely fine here, no help needed. Thanks for bringing her clothes by; you can be on your way now!”

He could have sworn Leliana was chuckling when she left. _What kind of Prince can’t even take off his own armor?_ Alistair thought bitterly, looking down at the robes in his hands. Orla…

He was still working on it, but down to the last of it when a hawk came barreling in through the tent flap, landing in the corner. It only stayed a hawk for a moment before it started to shift and change. The red haired woman who seemed to burst forth from the bird was laughing. Though it wasn’t obvious first as feathers fell or vanished from her skin, Orla was also completely naked.

Alistair couldn’t make himself look away, even if he wanted to. When she looked over at him with her bright blue eyes, the outside world melted away and there was only her.

“I, uh, your robes,” he said, fumbling and holding them out. Not that he wanted her to get dressed, no! But it would stop that from being the first thing she asked! After all, after holding them out he put them aside. And sat on them, clearing his throat, “I’m holding them hostage, however. If you want them back, you’ll have to go through me.”

Orla chuckled and started walking forward, “Trouble with your armor, my prince?” she asked, the nickname was older than Eamon’s bid to put him on the throne so it didn’t bother him. Much.

“Oh? This, well, I’m not a very good prince, I’m afraid. Can’t even take off my own armor,” Alistair explained, sheepishly rubbing the back of head.

Orla stopped and then laughed, “Alistair, there isn’t a prince in the whole of creation that takes off his own armor.”

“There’s not?” Alistair asked, baffled. That didn’t make sense, it seemed to be the princely thing to be able to handle it on your own.

“No,” Orla said, shaking her head as she closed the last distance between them, her hands working on the clasps that were still not undone, “They have servants to do it for them, silly.”

“Really?” he asked. It was hard to think straight with her so close, the scent of the open air on her.

“Really,” Orla said, the last pieces coming off, leaving the heavy clothes that were worn beneath, “There we go,” she said, leaning in close. Alistair wrapped his arms around her, a gloved hand running through her hair.

“I think I’m a bit overdressed,” he managed, tilting her face upwards so he could kiss her, only to find her kissing him.

“Shall I help you out with that, my Prince?” Orla breathed, the air bouncing off his lips nearly drove him to madness.

“ _Maker yes_ ,” he growled, “Need naked now.”

“As you wish,” Orla returned. No, no he wasn’t going to let this be taken away from them. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right that it had to happen to _them_. When her hands touched bare flesh, Alistair lost all reason. Together, they tumbled to the bedroll, and the world was perfect.

* * *

The candle in the tent had burned low, though light from the campfires outside still flickered in. Orla laid across Alistair’s chest, the blanket of the bedroll barely covering them.

“I think the entire camp must’ve heard us,” Orla laughed between breaths.

“Let them listen,” Alistair returned, his warm hand running through her hair. “In fact, I hope _certain_ people heard _everything._ ”

“Someone’s vindictive,” Orla said, trying not to chuckle as Dane walked in through the flap and decided to lay over their feet, “And I think we’re done for the night. Unless you’re okay with the dog watching us.”

“That would be… creepy,” Alistair said after a moment. “You can’t tell him to wait outside or something?”

“We need some sleep or I’ll be falling off my horse tomorrow,” Orla said, snuggling closer to Alistair. He was warm and being here was almost better than flying. It was a tie between the two, this was a different kind of freedom.

“That would be bad,” Alistair agreed, the hand on her hair now on her back, leaving a trail of fire. And here she thought she was the mage. “No falling off your horse. That’s a princely command,” he joked.

“As you wish,” Orla chuckled. A moment of happiness wasn’t too much to ask for and she didn’t feel bad for taking it when she could get it.

“So…” Alistair started, “You know how you got me to talk all about my past, I admit I’ve been wondering a bit more about yours.”

“Why?” Orla asked. It was true that the question didn’t come out of the blue, but she still felt compelled to ask. Then the idea hit her, “Are you looking for ammunition?” she asked, shifting so she sat straddled on top of him.

“Well, I’m just saying it’d be _nice_ to have some barbs to throw back at Eamon,” Alistair said, putting his hands on her hips. “You know, it just occurred to me that if it weren’t for the Wardens we would have met at the tower.”

Even though she knew he hadn’t meant it to sting, when he said that all she could think of was Cullen trapped in that prison and the anguished declaration they had gotten from him. Orla looked away, her hair covering her face, “It’s better this way, trust me.”

“Oh… oh!” Alistair started, “I’m… damn, I’m stupid. Okay, forget I started that line of conversation. I never said anything,” he stated, a hand moving up to brush the hair away from her face. Orla almost wished he hadn’t, as she felt tears there. What she was crying for, she wasn’t quite sure. Cullen, the tower, things that never were or never could be, maybe some other combination of all of it.

In a smooth motion, Alistair pulled her back down and held her close, his lips kissing her hair, “New plan,” he said, “No questions tonight. Kisses and sleep tonight. Being mushy in front of Eamon tomorrow. Good plan?” he asked, his voice raw.

Orla could only nod.

“Good plan,” he said.


	2. As Long as You're Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heist of the Circle Files goes off without a hitch, the information in them though leaves Orla stunned. Alistair, on the other hand, is upset that she took them at all and with the methods used to open them.

Chapter 2: As Long as You’re Mine

__**Dramatis Personae  
Orla Amell**, Grey Warden and mage of the Circle in Ferelden. One of two remaining after Loghain’s Betrayal.  
 **Alistair Theirin** , Bastard child of Maric Theirin, late king of Ferelden and half-brother to the late King Cailan. One of two remaining Grey Warden’s and Orla’s lover.  
 **Zevran Arainai** , the seemingly always joyful ex-member of the Antivan Crows, Orla’s close friend and confidant.  
 **Leliana** , born in Ferelden but raised in Orlais this bard and spy is a close friend and confidant of Orla and Alistair.  
 **Wynne** , Senior Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle of Magi a second mother and Adviser to Orla.  
 **Dane,** Orla’s mabari who chose her after the Battle of Ostagar.  
 **Sten** , a warrior of the Beresaad sent by the Arishock to answer the question “What is the Blight.”  
 **Shale** , a Golem “purchased” by Orla who is in full possession of her free will. 

__

* * *

Zevran moved the dagger just under his nails with expert ease as he leaned against the tree trunk. The bark dug into the leather and because of it’s protection it didn’t bite the skin on his back. Not that he would have minded the pain, though he normally didn’t seek it out in such a way.

“It took you long enough, _amica mia_ ,” the elf said, a small smile pulling at his lips. He liked to think that standing just outside the flickering of the campfires and torches gave him a certain aura of mystique. What did the Orlesians call it? _Je ne sais quoi?_

“What, Zevran, I am not a _bella_ to you?” Leliana returned, stepping out of the fire’s light and into shadow. He couldn’t deny the back-light from the fire did a lot to make those very fine curves very noticeable.

“Ahh, you wound me. I think very, _very_ highly of you, Leliana, but tonight it must be business before pleasure, sí? But if you still feel that I should worship at a lay sister’s Chantry afterward…”

“Just stop,” Leliana said, the tremble on her voice could be either laughter or desire, he was fine with either one.

“Oh, but I am just getting started. I had a good many very lewd propositions prepared just for tonight and you have already dashed my hopes! I suppose we will have to spend the evening doing our jobs then,” Zevran said with a sigh, shaking his head.

“Oh, what a great tragedy,” Leliana said with pleasant sarcasm. And then, it was all business. The shift in her posture was obvious and Zevran knew that playtime was over. He maintained his lazy stance, however. The act was too much a part of who he was. He could never fully drop it.

“I will be watching your back while you perform wanton acts of thievery,” Zevran said, “I have been itching for an excuse to take down a guard or two.”

“No killing,” Leliana said firmly.

“Did I say anything about killing? You worry far too much, _amica mia_ ,” Zevran said, tossing the dagger from his fingers only to catch it by its hilt and return it home in a smooth, quick motion. “I can take down many a guard without killing so much as the lice on his head,” Zevran said with a grin.

“Well then,” Leliana said. She seemed a bit put off by that, and Zevran swallowed a chuckle. He enjoyed the people he had found himself living with. They were both more interesting and better people than the whole of the Crows had been. “That does seem like the best way, Zevran. My fingers do seem to be a good deal more deft than yours.”

“And now I cannot tell you how much I wish to put that to the test because my dear _amica_ has demanded no more!” Zevran joked.

“With good reason,” Leliana said with a short laugh. It figured that talk that would have left Orla bright red and stuttering did nothing to the Orlesian bard. Of course, if it had thrown her off he would have to question how good of a bard she had actually been.

“Ahh, very well. We shall get to work. Follow me, sí? Zevran said, now standing up straight and moving away from the flickering of lights, “We do have some information to fetch for our friend, after all.”

“Is it right for us to do it though?” Leliana asked. Zevran couldn’t say the question was out of the blue. In fact, he was expecting it from her. Leliana made no secret of her devotion to the Chantry and the Maker. Zevran had seen too much of the world to think much of Chantry and it’s place in the world. The Maker… well, an absent God was the only kind of one who could let such things happen.

“I believe our fearless leader has a right to know about her family,” Zevran said with a lot less levity than normal, “Besides, she is no longer a Mage of the Circle but a Grey Warden so what right have they to such information?” he asked, “Besides even if they did still have a right to it, what right has the Arl to it?”

“Yes, but now she’s serving the Arl,” Leliana replied, “As such he has some right to it, surely.” Zevran knew what she was getting at, with the Chantry’s ‘law’ about magic serving man, but still this argument was a foolish one.

“Even if you could argue that Orla is serving the Arl - which she is not - he would not have a right to the information about her family,” Zevran pointed out. The seriousness in his voice must’ve had the desired effect as Leliana stopped in her tracks. Zevran stopped walking as well, but didn’t turn around, “As such this is one thing we need to do for her. We could not call ourselves friends otherwise.”

After a moment of silence, Leliana’s voice broke through, “You’re right. Information on her, he may be entitled to, but her siblings? Her family? Let us get these for her, Zevran. And thank you.”

“Whatever for, _amica mia?_ ” Zevran asked, “On second thought, do not mention it. The first of the guards are coming. I will whistle when it is clear,” Zevran said, moving forward silently. It was time to get to work.

* * *

Leliana waited in the shadows without so much as a muscle twitch until Zevran’s signal came. The single whistle cut the air and Leliana made her way around. The front door of the tent would be too obvious, but there was more than one way to get inside. She had done these sort of things for a living, after all. Even now she couldn’t deny there was a thrill to it.

Of course, the addiction to the game died out quickly in prison for a crime she didn’t commit, but now she could choose where to direct her talents instead of being forced one way or another.

The Arl’s tent was empty. Not that she’d be too concerned if he was there. Zevran was, however, making good on his promise to run interference. No guards, no Arl… Leliana had to wonder exactly how he pulled it off before she decided it might be one of those things that was better not to know.

It didn’t take long to find what she was looking for. A leather bound stack of parchment on the travel desk with the seal of the Chantry stamped on it. It gave it a blazing sun right in the middle. Leliana picked it up, resisting the urge to untie the leather strip that tied it shut when she noticed a second one there.

It threw her off for a moment until she remembered Wynne. Of course, with two mages there, the Arl would have requested two files. And by Zevran’s very sound logic the Arl had no right to that one either, as Wynne was serving with them. With deft fingers, she added the second one to the first and slipped out the way she came, not minding the bit of dirt that came with it.

After all, the front door was doubly out of the question if you didn’t enter that way. With a silent roll she stood up, not bothering to brush off the extra dirt that stuck to her armor as she made her way back to their end of camp. To minimize the risk of getting caught this tended to be the easier way to do things.

Leliana counted on Zevran being experienced enough to know this, and sure enough he was already back at their fire tormenting Wynne.

“All I am saying,” the elf spoke, “is that they are such nice bosoms, therefor not having them touched on occasion is a grave sin against the Maker.”

The older mage didn’t look up from her bread but shook her head and gave an exasperated sigh, “Zevran, how many times must I tell you I am old enough to be your grandmother.”

“I still fail to see how this is a bad thing, lovely silver haired vixen of my heart,” Zevran said happily.

“Shall I crush the Painted Elf’s head, Elder Mage?” Shale asked, sounding slightly annoyed, “Its yapping is about as palatable as a pigeon’s.”

“Zevran,” Leliana said, making it to the outer circle of light with silent steps, “I do hate to pull you away from your adorations but Orla was asking after you.”

Zevran stood up, a smile on his face, “It is exhausting, but my work is never truly done. I shall return to you soon, dear Wynne! Await me!”

“Please,” Wynne said, “Do try to take your time.”

Falling into step beside Leliana, Zevran’s smile spread, “She is simply ravenous for me!”

“Obviously,” Leliana joked in return. She wasn’t quite sure how much of Zevran’s innuendo was actual flirtation and how much of it was an act. She was quite good at reading people, it had been a part of her job description. It was possible that because of how Zevran was raised and what he was that he was harder to pick up on.

It wasn’t that Leliana doubted his loyalty to their little group, his protectiveness of Orla was obvious to everyone involved. She just wished she could help him ease the pain she was sure he covered up with his glibness. Leliana understood such pain, having been put through it herself by someone she loved.

“So quiet,” Zevran’s voice broke into her thoughts as they crossed the camp, “Surely you have stories you could tell to pass the distance?”

“It is a short walk, Zevran,” Leliana pointed out, “Not every moment has to be filled with our chatter.”

“Seems a shame though, not to use such a lovely voice,” Zevran said.

“You are a very shameless flatterer, you know this,” Leliana said, shaking her head.

“But of course! If you are so very good at something you should never be ashamed of it!” Zevran chuckled. They reached the tent then, the flap on it closed while Sten stood guard, silent and imposing. It was unfair that to have any time away from the Arl’s interference that the Qunari had to be posted outside the flap.

Leliana and Zevran stopped in front of Sten. The large Qunari nodded at them once, “You are both expected,” he said with a slight incline of his head towards the tent flap.

“Thank you, Sten,” Leliana said. They stepped into the tent that was barely large enough for two. Orla and Alistair were sharing a simple meal of bread and cheese. Dane, the mabari, sat by Orla his tail thumping on the ground as he waited for any scraps to fall.

“You’ve got it?” Orla asked when the flap closed behind them.

“Got what?” Alistair asked, looking confused as a few crumbs fell from his lips, “What’s going on?” Leliana frowned, the Prince-Errant’s confusion made it obvious that Orla hadn’t mentioned or spoke of this little caper.

“You didn’t tell him,” Leliana said simply.

“Tell me what?” Alistair asked, perturbed.

“Come now, Leliana, does he really need to know?” Zevran interjected.

“Well now I do!” Alistair said, trying to stand up and gesturing with the half-eaten loaf of bread as he spoke, “What in the Maker’s name is going on?”

“Alistair, it’s okay,” Orla said, putting a hand on his arm, “I just asked them to fetch something from the Arl for me.”

“Oh, well why didn’t anyone say so?” Alistair said, exasperated.

“Because you weren’t letting us, silly,” Orla said, reaching out to take the satchels Leliana had. The mage paused, “Two?”

“Two?” Zevran repeated, giving Leliana a questioning look.

“Two,” Leliana confirmed with a nod of her head. She wasn’t going to open them there to see which one was Orla’s and which one wasn’t. Getting a look at them now in the light she wasn’t sure she would have been able to anyway.

Orla paused a moment and then nodded once, “You had better go get Wynne, Leliana.”

“I will go fetch her now,” Leliana said, turning around and walking out of the tent and past Sten with her singular purpose. Nothing could ever be just a simple job. Not anymore. With Wardens and Mages nothing was ever simple. Leliana couldn’t say she minded. A part of her really had missed the game.

* * *

Orla held the two files in her hand, she could feel the magic of the seals radiating off it, like a buzzing in her hands. She shouldn’t have been surprised that Arl Eamon had requested both of the files. After all two mages would be twice the danger as far as he was concerned. Especially in light of what had happened with his son.

“Is that… a Chantry seal?” Alistair asked, leaning over her shoulder.

Orla looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. Every child in Thedas would at least know Andraste’s sun seal. It was a question he really didn’t have to ask, unless he was doing so to convince himself that it wasn’t. This was exactly why she hadn’t told him anything about this and simply waited the few days for Leliana and Zevran to have their chance.

“It is, isn’t it?” Alistair said, he stood up facing Zevran. Orla just sat, staring at the embossed, magically sealed leather, “What did you two get for her?!”

“Nothing that was not already hers,” Zevran said with a shrug, “And possibly Wynne’s,” he added as an afterthought, “Unless there are other mages running about in camp. I have to admit, we did not consider that one.”

“What are those, Orla?” Alistair’s voice was harsh.

“Files from the Circle of Magi,” Orla said simply, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Alistair. I really am. But you can be so easy to read and the Arl…” she trailed off, still not looking up at him.

“What, you think because the Arl gave me a barn over my head I’d go running to him straight away if you told me? After what he’s been trying to pull?!” Alistair’s temper was breaking over his voice, cracking partway through.

“You wanted the information on my past that the Arl had?” Orla snapped in return and held up the top satchel, the one that made her hand feel like electricity was coursing over it, “Well it’s all right here, Alistair. The Circle has had me since I was six years old. This could probably tell you when I stopped being afraid of the dark or when I started losing my milk teeth!”

“So you thought it was okay to walk right in to the Arl’s tent and take them? What’s gotten in to you!” Alistair snapped.

“Uh, technically she did not. Nor did I. Nor did Leliana,” Zevran said, “I believe Leliana crawled.”

“ _You_ put her up to this, didn’t you?” Alistair accused, leveling an accusing finger at Zevran, “I’m not going to stand for-”

“Alistair, stop. Zevran didn’t put me up to this. No one did. The Arl isn’t even supposed to have my file!” Orla returned, standing up. She might have only come up to his shoulders, but in that moment she made her presence the largest in the room. She would speak and he would listen, Maker help her!

“He’s not?” Alistair asked, having the decency to at least look shocked, especially when Dane picked up on her anger and started barking. It sounded like the large dog was verbally giving Alistair a piece of his mind. Orla hushed the mabari with a hand on his head.

“No, he’s not,” Orla said, “Duncan was supposed to have it but the Knight-Commander made excuses and claimed it would be sent to Weisshaupt as soon as he got word that the Denerim Chantry had sent my phylactery. Well obviously both were never sent there, but to the Arl instead.”

“Both?” Alistair asked, shock on his voice, “How do you know he has _both?_ ”

“Because, young man, to open these you need blood,” Wynne’s voice came from the door of the tent before Orla could answer. The Senior Enchanter’s short white hair was out of it’s usual tight ponytail and fell around her face in grandmotherly waves. Leliana stood behind Wynne, her face tight with concern and her eyes going between Orla and Alistair.

“But that’s…” Alistair trailed off.

“Blood magic?” Orla said, managing to keep most of the sarcasm off of her voice, “Most of the leashes they keep on us are.”

Wynne shook her head, “The young, always so melodramatic. We do what we must for the good of everyone involved. Yes, the files are both sealed and opened with blood magic. Now, if you would?” Wynne said, holding her hand out.

Orla handed her the other file, “Here’s yours, Wynne.”

“Thank you, my dear. Do you need to see how to open it?” Wynne asked, “Because you are right, in your case the Arl has no right to the information, but you do. Otherwise I would tell you to march these both right back and apologize.”

A year and some outside the circle and she still hung her head when the Senior Enchanter took that tone of voice with her, “I know; I’m sorry.”

“No need to be, now if someone has a dagger or small knife?” Wynne said, looking around to silence, “Please, I am standing in a tent with an assassin, a bard and a trained Templar and not a one of you has a dagger?”

Everyone started digging, almost scrambling for one while Orla pulled hers out of the sheath on her arm and offered it up, “No, dear, not yours. We wouldn’t be sure we were able to get all of the blood off.” That made sense once Orla stopped to think about it, to open the seal the blood had to belong to the person it had been attuned to. If it wasn’t at the very least it wouldn’t open. At worst…? She wasn’t sure, but there were many interesting traps out there for mages who got too curious. Better safe than sorry.

Orla put hers back as Zevran produced a dagger allowing the others to stop fumbling for theirs, “Thank you,” Wynne said, taking the small satchel to the tiny wooden table that had an oil lamp on it, “Come and watch, Orla. I’m only going to do this once,” Wynne said, “and not just because I don’t particularly enjoy the sight of my own blood.”

With an easy motion, Wynne took the dagger and cut her index finger from tip to base, a line of blood bubbling to the surface. She took the crimson finger and ran it clockwise over the large, embossed sun on the front cover of the satchel. There was a flash of light and crackling of energy. The leather string holding it closed fell away from it. With an easy motion, Wynne ran her hand over the hurt finger, healing it before opening the file on the table.

“Just like that. Now your turn, Orla,” Wynne said with a motherly smile.

“Still teaching, Wynne?” Orla said with a faint smile.

“Always,” Wynne said, “It warms these old bones to have had a hand in such an attentive and talented student.”

“I haven’t been lately,” Orla returned, placing the satchel down on the small table next to Wynne’s open one.

“Well,” Wynne chuckled, “We have been quite busy.”

Orla smiled at that and took her dagger out of it’s sheath and held it to the tip of her finger. As the point bit into the flesh, a strong hand took her wrist. Orla looked over at Alistair, his face close enough to her that she could feel his breath on her skin.

“You don’t have to do this, Orla,” he said, pulling the hand with the dagger away from her other hand which had been ready for the cut and sported a pink spot where the dagger had started to pierce the skin.

“Yes, I do,” Orla said firmly.

“No, you don’t. We already know everything about you we need to,” Alistair pleaded.

“This isn’t about me,” Orla returned, resisting the urge to pull her hand away which would have been a foolish action while holding on to a dagger. “We don’t know everything we need to. Unless you’ve found my siblings and haven’t told me!”

For a long moment he just stared in to her eyes and Orla worried that he really wasn’t going to let her do this, “Please, Alistair. I _have_ to know.”

Alistair sighed and let go of her hand, “I’m going to go out for some air,” he said, bitterness staining his voice, “Let me know what you find.”

Everyone was silent as he walked to the flap of the tent, “Alistair,” Orla said, reaching out, before her hand dropped back down to her side. He didn’t turn around, standing against the darkness of the night.

“What?” he asked, his voice flat.

_I love you_ , Orla thought, “N-nothing. I’ll see you when you get back,” she muttered.

He left, the flickering light in the tent making it look like he walked into a world of solid darkness. Orla stood there for a moment, clutching the dagger to her chest like it could give some kind of comfort. The steel offered none, but the warm hand on her shoulder did. Orla turned around to see Wynne’s gentle smile.

“Opening it is your choice, you don’t have to,” Wynne said. For a long moment, Orla considered whether or not she should. If it was worth the price, worth the fight just now.

After a long moment she nodded once, “Let’s find out what happened to my family.”

* * *

The night air was brisk. Not enough to have him seeing his breath, but enough to make him wish he had grabbed a cloak on the way out of the tent. The light jerkin and doublet didn’t really provide protection against the bitter Ferelden Winter air. He supposed he should count himself lucky it wasn’t snowing.

He stopped and realized he had wandered out of the camp. He could still see the shadows of the firelight on the trees and hear the sounds of the people behind him. Alistair looked over his shoulder and considered walking back. At least by the fire he’d be something resembling warm. Then he had a vivid image Orla slicing her finger to open that damned Circle of Magi file and decided against.

_Blood Magic_ , Alistair thought bitterly. _Nothing good ever comes from that_. If they had sealed those files with it, then they were kept shut for a _reason_ and there wasn’t any need to go digging around in them. As far as he was concerned Orla didn’t need to opening up secrets that had sounded like they were better off buried. What little she had told him about it had been tragic. It made him feel like an ass for complaining about his own childhood.

In the end though, wasn’t it enough to at least know her siblings were alive in a Circle somewhere? That being said, why had the Arl even needed it in the first place? The one thing he agreed on was the fact that the file and the phylactery should have been given to the Wardens. In his mind it was one more thing to blame Loghain for.

Alistair sank back against a tree until he was on the ground, holding his head in his hands, “Maker, what am I even doing here?” he muttered. He had stalked off like a child, but he still believed firmly that in this he was in the right. No good was going to come of it.

He looked up, the cold wind rustling the branches of the bare trees and blowing off some of the last remaining greenery while it howled eerily through the needles of the pines. The longer he sat there the more he wondered why he stormed off in the first place. He had never expected things to be simpler in the Wardens but neither had he expected things to become so complicated.

Alistair wasn’t sure how long he had sat there when the bushes rustled. Startled, he scrambled for the sword he realized wasn’t there. Instead he fumbled for and found a small stick and looked at it before tossing it away. Yes, he’d really defeat whoever was walking up with a dry winter twig.

He stood up, ready to lunge forward with his fists if he had to. Even though they were traveling in a large group, bandits, monsters and darkspawn were always around. What walked into his field of view wasn’t any of those things.

“Leliana?” he asked, his stance relaxing.

“There you are, Alistair,” Leliana said, relieved, “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

“You have?” Alistair asked. How long had he been out here? Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure.

“What are you doing all the way out here?” she asked as he stepped over some brush towards her, almost tripping in the process. He had apparently been sitting down long enough for his toes to be cold and tingling through the leather boots.

“Uh, the air is fresher, without all the fire and warmth,” Alistair said, trying to make it seem like he had intended to be here the entire time, “You?”

Leliana gave him a very dry look, “Searching for you, for at least half an hour.”

“Why?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. It wasn’t like there were screams from the forest or he was overly important to anyone but the Arl. Or Orla. But she was a big girl, she didn’t need him around when making foolish decisions.

“Orla needs you,” Leliana said. Alistair wasn’t sure whether or not it was the cold or her Orlesian accent that added the bite to the words.

“She didn’t need me around enough to listen to me earlier,” Alistair said, crossing his arms over his chest, as much for warmth as to take a stubborn stance.

The look Leliana gave him in return was a punch right in the stomach, “What would you have done to find your sister before you knew what she was?” she snapped, “And instead of a shallow, greedy woman you found another sibling you knew nothing about who had his emotions ripped from him because witnessing the death of his mother left him too volatile?”

_Maker, what an ass I’ve been_ , Alistair thought, _No, ‘ass’ doesn’t even begin to cover it._ Suddenly his thoughts turned away from himself, his own anger and discomfort as he realized Orla must be feeling as it hit him what Leliana just described was being made Tranquil. He wouldn’t have bat an eyelash if his shrew of a sister suddenly was an emotionless doll, Orla wasn’t like that. She had been set on her family, the last few days she had answered all of his questions about it. She had been set on it, and it had brought a light to her eyes.

“Where is she?” Alistair asked desperately.

“Right where you left her, in a pile of parchment streaked with tears,” Leliana snapped, it sounded like there might have been something else, but he was already on his way and Leliana wasn’t what he was concerned about.

He barely noticed the scratches the low hanging, bare branches and pine needles left on his face. It wasn’t hard to make his way back to camp he just had to follow the sounds of fire and people, the smell of wood and horses. He was back in a quarter of the time it had taken him to stomp off in the first place. He now felt the fool for having stomped out in the first place.

After all, children threw tantrums like that. Not grown men. Sten still stood outside the tent, the only change to his expression a raised eyebrow. That didn’t bother him at all compared to the sounds from inside the tent. Each soft sob felt like it was cutting into his soul. He pulled the tent flap open to see Orla on the ground, paper spread around her. Wynne was there, holding on to her like a mother would. Alistair just watched for a moment, unable to swallow the lump in his throat to speak.

It took him a couple of tries to get her name to pass his lips and even then his voice was raw from just watching her cry. Both women looked up. Wynne’s face still had the composure that he had always associated with her. Orla’s, on the other hand, was anything but composed. Tears streaked down her face, her eyes red and puffy making the blue irises even more stark in comparison. She had once lamented that she looked like a drowned rat when crying, but even in this state he couldn’t find her anything but beautiful.

“Alistair,” Orla said his name with a hitch in her voice and suddenly she went from Wynne’s arms to his. He held her tightly, his hand tangling in her hair. She buried her face in his shoulder and Alistair took the moment to shoot a questioning look at Wynne. The old woman’s eyes were heavy with unspent tears of her own.

“She needs you right now,” Wynne said simply, her own voice strained. She didn’t say another word as she walked out of the tent, the flap falling closed behind her. Left alone with Orla sobbing into his shoulder at a loss for what to do next and no real idea what the damn file had said.

As much as he wanted to pull away for a moment and try to look at the papers the urge to do so was quashed by the need to comfort Orla, or at least calm her down enough to ask what she had found out. First step was to at least get her looking up at him and not crying all over his shoulder. With one hand he gently pulled her head away from the puddle she was making on his shoulder. That first look into her eyes almost killed him. She looked so lost.

“Orla,” Alistair started, “What…?” he couldn’t keep going, not when she bit her lip like that and twin rivers flowed from her eyes. “Hey, hey…” he started, not letting her bury her face away from him again. He wanted to, needed to see her. He needed to take those tears away. Alistair knew he couldn’t fix everything, but he could at least relieve some of the pain and sorrow. At least enough to get her to be able to talk about it. That, and he hated seeing her like this.

“I…” Orla started but a hiccup swallowed the next part. He brushed the hair away from her face, the strands wet with tears. Orla looked like she was trying to speak again; Alistair leaned in and gently touched his lips to hers.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he muttered against her mouth, his hands gently holding on to her face, “You don’t have to tell me,” he whispered tasting the salt the tears had left on her lips before moving his mouth to her cheek, “It’s okay, Orla.”

Orla shook her head. She was so close to him that the motion moved her skin against his mouth, “My brother,” she managed.

“I know,” Alistair returned, “Shh, you don’t have to say a thing,” he whispered into the tears that stained her cheeks. Maker help him, he _would_ kiss all the pain away. He brushed them with his lips, the taste of tears a bitter tang. Kissing them away wasn’t all that bad of an idea. It would also be an apology of sorts. He shouldn’t have stormed off; he should have been here.

Alistair chose to show her without words that he always would be there. There were so few things in his life he could claim had any sort of permanence. Maker help him, he would hold on to this. His lips lightly brushed her cheeks again, moving towards her lips. Those swollen, beautiful lips.

Alistair kissed her, lightly at first. He paid attention to her responses. In the year or so they had been together they had learned to read each other. More than just the undertones of dialog, but in the way they walked and the gazes they exchanged. How their lips opened up like books to each other, imparting worlds undiscovered.

Orla’s slightly parting lips may well have been the opening of city’s gate, inviting him and only him in. With the invitation he took the kiss deeper, their tongues entwining. She responded to it with a fire equal to his own. Alistair pulled away for a moment to take off the doublet and shirt tunic underneath, Orla’s hands getting tangled up in an attempt to help. He couldn’t complain about that small snag when the reward was her hands on his bare chest.

Alistair had to fight with himself to break the kiss for a moment, one hand cupping Orla’s face, the other holding her hand gently. He pressed his forehead to hers as he tried to steady his breath. Hers was also coming in short, ragged bursts. He hoped he was more to blame for it than the tears. He could deal with that.

“I love you,” Alistair said, “I love you so much.”

“Love you too,” Orla replied, her voice barely above a whisper, “Alistair?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t stop. Please,” she said, leaning in for another kiss. This one just a light touching of lips. It was the kindling that sparked the fire, “And don’t go,” she finished.

“I,” Alistair started, punctuating each word, each breath with a kiss, “am not going anywhere. Promise,” he said, feeling her breath hot on his lips before covering her mouth with his. His hands pulled at the folds in her robes, struggling to undress her without breaking the contact. After a deep kiss that seemed to hang forever on a moment, Orla pulled away. Alistair couldn’t keep his hands to himself and they tangled in her robes as she pulled them up over her head, leaving her in muslin shift.

They both laughed as they tossed the heavy blue and silver robe aside, Orla having to shake her arm to get it to finally fall free. Alistair’s hands instantly made their way under the muslin, feeling the the bare skin of her perfectly formed rear. He buried his lips in her neck and nipped at the skin. He wanted nothing more than to coax those small gasps and moans she made out of her.

His plan worked. He grinned to himself as his teeth grazed her earlobe, his breath pushing read strands of hair around. Orla turned the tables on him in an instant when her fingers undid the knot keeping his breeches closed and her hand slipped inside. Those long, nimble fingers closed around him and for a moment he lost the ability to think at all.

“Dear Maker,” he gasped and her response was a breathy laugh.

Her hand, the sound of her laugh, the feel of her breath against his skin all conspired to break him. He had wanted to make this all about her but here Orla was taking those plans and shattering them with each kiss she planted on his chest. Maker help him, he was too distracted to notice exactly what she was planning until she paused and looked up at him.

“Stand up,” she whispered in his ear, one hand still stroking his member. _That_ snapped him back to the present even if it was hard to think through everything she was doing.

“No, no… this was supposed to be about _you_ ,” Alistair managed.

“Then stand up for me,” Orla returned with an expert twist of her hand.

Alistair swallowed, managing to make it to his feet. His breeches falling in a pile on the ground. Orla helped him stumble out of them and put them to the side. Once that was done, she sat on her knees in front of him. Alistair’s hands tangled in Orla’s red hair as she ran her tongue over him. While this was the complete opposite of what he had planned he couldn’t claim to be upset by the change in plans.

Especially when it went from just being her tongue on him to her mouth closing around him. His hands tangled in her hair some more as the sheer pleasure of it washed over him. Though Orla’s eyes were still puffy from tears spent, they now had an impish glint in them and it was infectious. He smiled down at her and then groaned as she took him deeper than she had before.

That was new and almost a breaking point. Alistair was determined this wouldn’t be the end. Not so soon, no matter how hard Orla was trying to speed him along that path. It took an act of extreme willpower to get her to pull away, and he dropped down to his knees to be with her. Alistair took her mouth with his the taste of him on her tongue nearly driving him mad.

He needed her so much that it was painful. He laid Orla down without bothering to remove the thin shift and with one easy thrust buried himself inside of her. He paused for a moment, soaking up the feeling of being buried in her and to give himself enough of a pause that things wouldn’t end too quickly.

“Alistair,” Orla’s voice hitched in the middle of calling his name and she wiggled and shifted beneath him. He almost lost it when her lips slightly grazed his neck, but he held still for another moment before he had to start moving or risk going insane.

There was no slow start, when Alistair started moving he went full force. He was too wound up to go slow, to be gentle. Each thrust he made pulled the most beautiful sounds from Orla. She was quiet at first letting out little pants and moans with each stroke. She seemed to grow louder with every movement they made together.

“Alistair,” she said his name again and the hitch on her voice nearly finished him right there, “don’t… go,” the was cut short by her trembling, gasping climax. Now with no reason to hold back, Alistair picked up the pace, lifting one of her legs slightly to get a better, deeper angle.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, riding her climax into his own shuddering release, “I promise,” he whispered in the aftermath as he held her tightly in his embrace. “I promise you…”

* * *

“One should not make promises they are not able to keep,” Sten’s voice steady and clear. Orla didn’t always agree with everything he had to say, but there were plenty of times his nearly emotionless candor had proven invaluable. Orla spent another moment pretending to study the soil beneath their feet before standing up, leaning on her staff.

“I didn’t ask for your advice, Sten,” she said simply. They were scouting ahead of the Arl’s train, looking for signs of darkspawn. Orla, Sten and Dane would have an easier time taking out any groups on the way to Denerim than the Arl’s soldiers would. It also allowed her time away from the Arl himself.

“No,” he agreed tersely, “but you still need it.”

“Everyone seems to know exactly what it is I need,” Orla snapped. There was no need to apologize for outbursts with Sten. The Qunari appreciated honesty over tact and it was a trait in him she had come to value highly. It didn’t mean there weren’t times when it annoyed her to the void and back, “Is this where I get another delightful story from the Qun?”

“If you like I know several that would fit this situation,” Sten said without a hint of irony, “None of them end well.”

“Huh. I was hoping for the one about the bees again,” Orla said dryly, “I suppose that one is out of the question.”

“It is. Of all the _sarrebas_ I have seen, only you have an understanding of the danger of the power you hold. Unless you end up possessed you are only a threat to our enemies,” Sten said matter-of-factly.

“And if I end up possessed?” Orla asked as they walked forward. Darkspawn were idiots, talking wouldn’t give them away, scent and smell would.

“If I am there, I will kill you,” Sten returned. There was something about the way he said it, so calm and simple that stopped Orla in her tracks. She turned around and looked up at the Qunari.

“Thank you,” Orla said simply. Sten didn’t respond with words but nodded once in a way that showed he understood the thanks were genuine and not sarcastic. After that they walked in silence for a few moments, Dane sniffing the ground as he trotted beside them.

“Don’t think your change of topic was successful,” Sten said after a moment, “A reminder that having me stand as guard means I hear more than I wish to, kadan,” he noted.

“If it bothers you so much stop standing guard,” Orla said. She had asked for it, and the Qunari had obliged, this wasn’t the first complaint he had made about it though.

“It is time you stopped ignoring your obligations. How will you defeat the blight if you are distracted, kadan?” Sten said, his tone was hard as ever if you didn’t know him but Orla could have sworn she was now able to detect softness, sarcasm, humor and friendliness in his voice from time to time. Right now she could have sworn it was worry. It was barely there, but unmistakable.

“Who knew Qunari could worry,” she mused aloud.

“Now is not the time to deflect questions, kadan,” Sten said. “When we return to Denerim you must be ready to do what must be done.”

“And what is it that must be done, Sten?” Orla said, her stride changing as they walked up a steep hill.

“These bickering nobles of yours must either be pacified or killed and then an army raised,” Sten said. “You are talented and those we’ve gathered will fight but without an army we will die,” Sten said, stopping at the crest of the hill, “You need to act, kadan. With time not taking action becomes an action of its own.”

Orla shook her head but the words on her mouth died as they reached the top of the hill, a view of Denerim below spread out before her. Her stomach dropped and her hands on her staff shook. The time had gone faster than she felt it should have.

“Tell me Sten,” Orla said, as she watched a flock of birds fly through the cloud of coal and wood smoke that blanketed the city below them, “I am not going to be allowed a happy ending, am I?” she asked as Dane sat beside her, licking her hand.

“Doing one’s duty should be more important. If you do not then no, you will not get your ‘happy ending’, kadan,” Sten returned with blunt honesty.

Tears blurred her vision, causing her view of the city to run like wet ink. She turned on her heel, “Let’s head back. There’s a lot to prepare for,” Orla said, the words catching in her throat.


End file.
